Labyrinth Song

I didn’t have time, at the time, but this time I took the time.  When I got out of the car and chirped the locks, the labyrinth called to me. I didn’t really have the time, but I went, anyway.  It called to me, the deep resonant wind chime sang out and called to me.  As I crept in to peaceful sunken garden, the grackles who usually annoy me were drinking from the water in the cracks of the garden stones, from the water blown down onto the garden walk from the waterfall and the pool below.  The songbirds sang in time to the   and the waterfall.  The gate closed and the city receded and I spent a stolen ten minutes beneath the orange flowered ivy ceiling, listening to the peace and solitude (no one is ever here even though it is open to the public and a wonderful meditation garden that beckons).
I drank my coffee with its creamy, sweet, guilty pleasure and listened to the song.  I didn’t walk the labyrinth.  I did watch the birds and the water, and the ivy tendrils dancing from the ceiling in the wind.  It was a slow swaying dance, as gentle as the   song that it danced to.  The heat and noise forgotten.  The urgency to hurry to anywhere with it.
I didn’t have the time, but I took the time.  And this morning it made all the difference.